


Blood as Sweet as Cherry Wine

by The_Eldritch_IT_Gay



Series: Old Works [13]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood Magic, Depression, Discussions of Blood Magic and The Fucked-Up-Ness of the Circle, Dragon Age: Origins Quest - Broken Circle, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Injury, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Mind Control, Past Torture, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 13:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18639076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eldritch_IT_Gay/pseuds/The_Eldritch_IT_Gay
Summary: Amal Surana had always been a timid man, anxious and non-confrontational. Never was it so apparent as when their party stepped foot back into Kinloch Hold. Amal never talked about his time in the Circle, about his hatred of blood magic. But in the aftermath of the Circle's fall, much of his past is dredged up.





	Blood as Sweet as Cherry Wine

**Author's Note:**

> A fair warning, this is rather dialogue-heavy and largely is about my Warden, Amal Surana's history before the start of the events of DA:O. It gets pretty dark in subject matter when talking about Amal's time spent in Kinloch Hold, but there are some rather sweet and somewhat domestic moments at the end. Morrigan and Zevran, despite everything, are gentle and soft with Amal, knowing how traumatized he is.  
> I really love the ship of Zev/Warden/Morrigan, especially with my Warden. If you'd like to see a quick doodle of the 3 of them, you can check it out on my tumblr [here](https://the-eldritch-it-gay.tumblr.com/post/184280440057/my-ot3-is-still-zevranamalmorrigan-highlights).  
> Also as far as I'm concerned, Morrigan has dark skin since she's supposed to be of Chasind descent.

Morrigan looked up from her fire as she heard Alistair shouting that the others had returned. It had taken longer than she had expected- not that she had much of a chance to assess the situation in Kinloch Hold. 

It had been a mess, though, abominations and demons running free, blood and viscera coating the floors. She could sense the weakness, the tearing of the Veil before she had even stepped inside the tower. Inside the Tower itself, it was almost  _ painful _ , the sharp prickling sensation of the Fade bleeding into their world.

Even so, it shouldn’t have taken this long, no doubt they were slowed by that  _ stupid  _ senior enchanter Amal had let come along. And Morrigan had some  _ words  _ for him. She had been stewing on the emotions of their last conversation for the better part of two days and had  _ many  _ things she wanted to say to him.

* * *

 

Wynne had looked at Amal like he was a child, an apprentice, speaking in that stupidly condescending and soft voice. And Amal just took it, without a fight. He seemed smaller under her gaze, he was already barely half a foot taller than most dwarves, but in front of his old senior enchanter, he almost looked like a child. Ducking his head, closing himself off, treating her with a respect that had no doubt been beaten into him.

Amal was a Grey Warden, a talented Spirit Healer, and a fully grown _adult_. And Wynne seemed to disregard all of that, seeing him only as the apprentice he had been in his youth.

It took all of Morrigan’s patience to keep quiet as they spoke. Glancing to her side, she saw Zevran twirling his blades, looking almost bored if it wasn’t for the slight tension he seemed to hold. Sten was impassive as ever, though she could tell even he was annoyed by the enchanter.

Only when Wynne insisting on joining them and Amal meekly agreed did she finally step in.

“You want us to assist this preachy schoolmistress? To rescue these pathetic excuses for mages? They allow themselves to be corralled like cattle, mindless. Now their _masters-_ ” Morrigan could see Amal flinch out of the corner of her eye, “-have chosen death for them and I say let them have it.”

“Morrigan,” Amal said, grabbing her arm and pulling her aside, around a corner, out of earshot.

Scowling, Morrigan yanked her arm from his grasp. It wasn’t hard, Amal had never been strong and he let her arm go willingly.

“I thought you preferred I speak my mind, or do you prefer the thoughts of some fear mongering chantry-controlled-”

“ _Morrigan,”_ Amal said, and only now did she realize the pained look on his face, the tension in his body.

He leaned back against the stone wall, eyes screwed shut, hands clenched into fists. It was unusual for him, this tension, this pain. She had grown used to the heaviness Amal carried, the way he seemed barely there half the time, eyes distant. He had only ever seemed _there_ on a few occasions, and those were times he seemed content, comfortable. This was not that. His eyes weren’t glazed, they were focused, but instead of content-ness Amal radiated stress and _fear._

“What?”

Amal let out a deep breath, slumping against the wall slightly, intently avoiding her eyes.

“I was one of those _mindless cattle_ , not too long ago,” He said quietly, “I was given no choice in it,”

“Everyone has a choice,” Morrigan scoffed.

Amal sighed.

“I was taken by the Templars when I could barely string together full sentences. Taken from my people, my Clan. Did I choose for that to happen? Do you truly think me to be someone who allowed people to control me? You’ve seen the scars on my body, do you think I just allowed that to happen to me? That had I chose not for it to happen, that if I was stronger-willed, that none of that would have happened? That all that I endured was my fault because I chose to allow it to happen? Was I just _weak?_ ”

It was the closest to angry she had ever seen him, but even now he wasn’t confrontational. He was closed off, making himself small, avoiding her eyes. It was easy to imagine now what Amal must have looked like during the 20 years he spent inside the tower.

 _Yes,_ part of her thought, _you were, you are, too small, too weak, too soft._

“I- That is _not_ what I said-” Morrigan started, but Amal cut her off.

“You don’t need to,”

“If you want to show you’re not weak, then don’t let that _stupid_ schoolmistress walk all over you and force you to help the Circle. I thought you didn’t care for the Circle, but _apparently,_ you’re still one of them,”

“I hate the circle far more than you ever could, more than you could even understand. But I know it is not made up of _cattle_ that allowed themselves to be corralled. So much of it is made up of children stolen from their parents that were beaten into submission and obedience. Those people do not deserve to be lumped in with the ones who run the circle, who willingly support it and its tactics.

I don’t support Wynne’s views, or how she played a part in all that happened to me. But her skills as a mage- reviving, healing, restoring- are invaluable. I cannot turn away that aid when facing what now lies within the tower. I don’t expect you to like her, or my decision, but it doesn’t harm you. And I will not force you to fight this battle if you truly do not wish to aid the circle and its mages.”

Morrigan opened her mouth to say something, but stopped herself, clenching her hands to fists and setting her shoulders.

“Fine then,” She said tersely after a moment, “Then I will return to our camp and see you once you’re done playing the hero.”

And with that, she shifted into a bird, flying out through a tiny window in the stones near the ceiling.

* * *

 

Standing, Morrigan started towards the entrance of the camp where she could see the others approaching. And then, she froze. She saw Zevran, Wynne, and Sten walking into camp, Ramiel following behind, his head held low. In Sten’s arms, was the limp form of Amal. Morrigan felt a sudden strange fear grip her heart, a faint sense panic growing in her. 

But when she saw Amal move slightly, the  _ stupid  _ paralysis that had gripped her faded, a sense of relief washing over her.  _ It’s just because he’s a friend,  _ she reasoned to herself,  _ and the leader of the army against the Blight, it would be less than ideal if he were to die.  _ She steadied herself as she continued her walk towards the others, careful to keep her pace slow and casual. 

Amal had been injured before, stupidly fighting in melee range even though he knew his robes wouldn’t protect him. He could fight up close, he had spells that only worked in close range, but he was easily overpowered. Despite it, he always pulled through. He was their groups medic and healer for all intents and purposes, tending to everyone’s wounds on the field and in camp. When he was injured, he would always tend to his own wounds, occasionally accepting the help of a basic healing spell from Morrigan. 

It had never been this bad before. 

She saw Sten carrying Amal into his tent, followed by Wynne who was going through the contents of her satchel. From inside Amal’s tent, she heard a weak cry that made her stomach twist uneasily. She still, kept her distance, only getting close enough to hear parts of the conversation between the others. Leliana and Alistair were visibly worried, asking Zevran- and Sten once he exited the tent- for details on what happened.

_ “-demons and abominations everywhere, a truly horrific sight-” _

_ “-charmed Templars under the thrall of demons and blood mages-”  _

_ “-recognized a mage, focused their attacks on him, dispelling his magic-” _

_ “-fought his way through the Fade, it felt like we were in there for days-” _

_ “-a miracle we survived-”  _

The conversation was eventually interrupted by Wynne stepping out of Amal’s tent, and asking for the assistance of ‘someone strong’. Sten volunteered, Alistair looking far too pale and anxious. As the two of them returned to Amal’s tent, Zevran caught Morrigan’s eye, looking like he wanted to talk. Morrigan, though, just shook her head, walking back to her own fire.

She wasn’t even all the way there when a barely muffled scream of pain rang out.

At some point Ane’lun dropped down from his perch near the edge of camp, slowly pacing closer to the tents, bow slung over his back. The pained shouts hardly seemed to bother him, face impassive, but Morrigan could see the ways his ears flicked at the noise. He eventually settled in the shade of a tree, his wolf curled up beside him as he idly cleaned his bow. Both of their eyes watched Amal’s tent all the while. 

He wasn’t the only one who seemed on edge, a tense silence had fallen over everyone in the camp.

It took a while, but eventually, silence settled over the camp again. Wynne and Sten exited Amal’s tent- neither covered in blood which was always a good sign- and Morrigan decided it was time to make her way back over. Ignoring the idle conversations around the fire, she quickly strode over to Amal’s tent.

“He needs rest,” Wynne called from behind Morrigan before she could enter, “Whatever you need to discuss with him, I’m sure it can wait,”

Zevran let out a low chuckle from where he sat by the fire, glancing between the women, amused.

“And yet,” Morrigan said over her shoulder, “Your words can do nothing to stop me.”

Wynne started speaking again, but Morrigan ignored her, stepping inside Amal’s tent.

In the low light, Morrigan could just make out Amal’s form lying still on his makeshift bed against the pale furs. Normally, he kept the tent lit with his magic when he was in it, the fact it was dark only lent to how bad his state must be. With a quick flick of her wrist, she illuminated the interior with her own sourceless, warm light.

Amal’s eyes were open, though lidded, his dark eyes watching Morrigan. After a moment he smiled tiredly and Morrigan sighed. He truly looked worn, dark circles under his eyes, skin ashen, faint bruises littering his skin, smears of blood that were haphazardly half-wiped away. Under the collar of his tunic and his mess of dark curled hair, familiar old scars looked freshly scabbed over and healed― recently reopened. 

“It seems I’m done playing the hero,” Amal smiled weakly, “Or at least for a few days.”

Letting out a small sigh of relief, Morrigan shook her head.

“If I could perhaps request you avoid returning to camp half-dead,” She said, sitting on the furs next to him, “I would be rather grateful.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks, I promise, I just dislocated something-”

“Must certainly be  _ something  _ you dislocated, what with the blood and open wounds,”

Amal gave a resigned half-shrug, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Did the others say what happened?”

“Oh, just bits and pieces about abominations, demons, Templars, blood mages. Sounds like what I expected from the circle, if I’m quite honest.”

“That’s true enough, though it usually is confined behind closed doors,” Amal chuckled, then winced, “But, what was really happening was demon summoning and quite a lot of blood magic. And a sloth demon that sent our souls to the fade to spend forever with it feeding off our misery and life force, which I had to more or less single handedly fight my way through the fade to save everyone from, but that was more a distraction. The cause of it all was Uldred, and blood magic.”

He looked tense at his own mention of blood magic, he always had. Whenever it came up during their travels, Amal always look slightly sick and anxious. His ears, normally drooping downward, would twitch or raise even, giving away whatever distress he tried to mask. The Chantry’s doing, no doubt.

“You cannot blame  _ blood magic  _ itself, you know,” Morrigan pointed out, “‘Tis a poor carpenter who blames his tools, or do you truly hate blood magic enough to forget that?”

Amal sighed, staying quiet for a few moments. He looked slightly pained, similar to how he had looked right before she left in the tower. 

“Did I ever tell you the circumstances under which I left the Tower?” He asked eventually.

“Not explicitly, though ‘twas clear enough in Redcliffe that that blood mage Jowan had something to do with it, no?”

“Perhaps it would make sense if I were to explain that first…” Amal mused, “Tell me, Morrigan, what do you know of The Tranquil?”

“I-” Morrigan started, startled slightly by the question, “I have heard of it. Mages that have their connection to the Fade severed, yes? It seemed rather barbaric to me.”

Amal nodded, “It is. As a side effect, the Tranquil can’t feel emotion. They’re just… like husks. Easily controlled, which is why the Circle does it I suppose… When a mage is… troublesome, deemed dangerous by the Circle, or simply not good enough, the Circle makes them Tranquil. It’s meant to be a last resort, to keep the mage and everyone else safe. But, the Circle also uses it just to make their lives easier, keep those who might cause issues or uprising under control. It was a constant threat, so many of us were kept up at night worried if we failed, if we did something wrong, that we would be made Tranquil.”

Morrigan was silent for a moment, “As terrible as that is, I can’t say it surprises me, knowing what I know of the Circle.”

“It was one of three outcomes of being an apprentice. You either passed your Harrowing and joined the Circle to continue its vicious cycle, or you died in the Harrowing or were killed by the Templars if a demon overpowered you, or you were made Tranquil. Those were the options. Assimilation, death, or the Rite of Tranquility.”

Amal fidgeted idly, pausing for another moment. 

“Jowan… he was a bit older than me, but he hadn’t been through the Harrowing. And he found that they were planning to make him Tranquil, he asked for my help to destroy his Phylactery.”

“They were making him Tranquil because of his blood magic, no doubt,” Morrigan commented.

“I didn’t know he was a blood mage, neither did the senior enchanters, actually,” Amal shook his head, “But I agreed to help him, he was the only friend I really had, I had already lost my only other friend to the Rite of Tranquility. I didn’t want to see another friend go like that- or at least, I think that’s what I thought- I-”

“You don’t know?”

“I-” Amal made a frustrated noise, pushing some of the hair out of his face, “Perhaps I should start from the beginning, really…” 

He sighed again, and Morrigan moved to lay on her side, propping herself up with her elbow and watching Amal with interest. 

“I was brought to the Circle when I was no older than 5, probably. I cannot remember anything before the Tower, only Templars shoving child-sized handcuffs onto my wrist and shoving me into the back of a cart, then the Tower was all I knew. It was only when I was older that I learned about my parents. They were Dalish, or maybe just one of them was, I’m not sure. I stole a few notes of the Senior Enchanters and they mentioned my Dalish heritage.

When I was with Duncan on our way to Ostagar, we stopped near a Dalish clan where we found Ane’lun. The Keeper says she might have known my mother, and maybe my father too, that my mother had been part of their clan. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk, but she said I would always be welcome with them. I don’t… I don’t think of myself as Dalish, I suppose I could.  I- in the Circle we’re not supposed to think of ourselves as anything, we’re barely supposed to be individuals.

I wasn’t the only elf in the Tower, certainly, but there weren’t many. And certainly not any of darker skin. But all of them were city elves, I barely knew anything about the Alienages they spoke of. I didn’t really have any friends. There was one, but I mentioned how I had already lost a friend to Tranquility. As we grew into our adolescence, many of the apprentices would… have relationships with one another. I wasn’t part of that, really, no one was interested in me, I was the only elf in our age group. But eventually, there was one girl who seemed interested in me, and I was stupid enough to believe her… She- she didn’t really love me, though she said she did- she was just… using me. She was a blood mage, and I was the weakest in our age group, and therefore… the easiest to make into a thrall.” 

Whatever Morrigan had thought Amal was going to say, it was not that. It was hard for her to imagine him a _thrall_ , but- after thinking a moment, she realized it wasn’t. She had seen him in private, she knew him well. While he was the current leader of their party- and therefore the battle against the Blight- she knew he never wanted to be a leader. He wanted desperately to be told what to do, to follow someone else’s orders, he struggled to make decisions on his own. He was stupidly altruistic at times, hated confrontation, easily bullied into silence. Though, she realized, she had no idea what he was like _before_. Perhaps the distance in his eyes, the sadness he carried, the non-combative-ness was all a side effect of that blood magic, coupled with his upbringing within the Tower.

“And that is what made Jowan’s betrayal more jarring,” Morrigan said, “And your feelings towards blood magic.”

Amal nodded, “And what made this past battle more… challenging. Wynne wouldn’t have known, of course, there were plenty of blood mages in the tower when I was there. Senior mages are oblivious to it- too confident in their teachings to think any of their pupils would turn to blood magic.”

“I’m sure the way they forbade it only made it more enticing,” Morrigan sighed.

Amal pulled the collar of his tunic aside slightly, baring the freshly reopened scars Morrigan had seen many times before. She hadn’t questioned them before- seemed a rather rude thing to do. Of course, she had noticed they were different from the other scars he had, even she had joined his party. When Flemeth had first brought him from the battle of Ostagar, inches from death along with Alistair, she had been able to see the numerous scars covering his body. The odd shapes of scars left by spells, scars from that battle- the scars over his heart from the arrows the darkspawn had shot him down with. The scars on his back, the pale, crisscrossing scars of lash marks, that she knew now were from his time in the Circle.

But most curious, there were countless small, methodical scars on his neck, normally covered by his hair. Along the column of his throat on both sides, from the juncture of his neck up to right under the lobe of his long pointed ears, overlapping at the nape of his neck. They were more careful and deliberate than the other scars, small, neat slices, but in a place that made Morrigan doubt they were self-inflicted. Now, being far more… intimately knowledgeable of Amal’s body, she had discovered similar marks clustered in odd places around his body. The inside of his thighs and wrists, the underside of his upper arms, the backs of his calves. They were all clearly made by the same instrument, the same intent, though all of varying ages.

“Have you ever wondered how I got these?” He asked, tilting his head to the side to expose his neck and the fresh scars.

“It had crossed my mind,”

“These are from that blood magic- her using my blood,”

It seemed obvious now, but a part of Morrigan still felt bad hearing it. Imagining the marks being carved into his skin, someone bleeding him for their own gain, magic twisting his mind to keep him still and submissive.

“I usually would hide them, Circle robes cover quite a lot, luckily,” He let out a humorless laugh, “I didn’t know where they came from at first, just that I would starting losing time, minutes, hours, days, weeks, _years_. Maybe it was for the best. I can’t remember much of the torture I faced, either from blood magic or my mind trying to block it out. It was almost peaceful… not being there, barely being aware I had a body. I didn’t actually break free of her thrall until I joined the Wardens and left the Tower. It was only then it came back to me…I was suddenly aware of it all, aware of the hundreds of marks on my skin, of the time I lost, of what was done to me. I nearly broke...”

She remembered seeing him for the first time in the Kocari Wilds. There had been plenty of people who had passed through the area, the group of recruits didn’t surprise her. But the small dark-skinned elf in Circle robes caught her eye. She could remember seeing the distance in his eyes, the mostly hidden scars, the tremble to his form, the way he had agreed to follow her without question. It made sense to her now. A thrall without its master, breaking inside, terrified at having a free will for the first time in years.

“And... they are reopened because you were under a thrall again?” Morrigan couldn’t help the concern that crept into her voice.

“Not quite…,” Amal winced, “I- I was trapped in the fade, I didn’t know where Sten or Zevran were- I was having to battle countless demons and I-”

“You... _turned_ to blood magic…” Morrigan realized.

Amal closed his eyes for a moment, looking pained. When he opened his eyes again, he avoided her gaze, tensing in a way that was too familiar by now and just as sad to see.

“Yes… and that’s partially responsible for my state… blood magic tampers with how healing magic effects you, it doesn’t work as well. Which is… unfortunate, when you’re losing so much blood.”

“Is that not why blood mages have thralls?”

Nodding, Amal let out a deep sigh.

“I- I couldn’t- couldn’t bring myself to use Sten or _Zev_ for that… I was using half of my blood for _healing_ spells for them. So, I exhausted my blood and my mana. I shouldn’t have let myself get that low on either, I’m- I’m sorry.”

Morrigan chuckled softly, pushing stray curls out of his face, smiling as Amal leaned into her touch. Softly, she traced over the intricate patterns of the dark tattoos decorating his face. It wasn’t Vallaslin the Dalish wore, but she found it just as beautiful. She had spent one night mapping all the intricate curves that covered his dark skin, interrupted only by scars left by the Templars and the countless raised scars left by blood magic. She had traced them with her lips, with her fingers, listening to him tell the story behind his designs. It wasn’t a symbol of devotion to the Creators- though he did follow them- but rather an attempt to cling to the culture he was denied a part of. The culture and life the Templars and the Circle robbed him of.

And despite what the Circle did, despite the horrors he had faced, he still tried to save the Circle. Turned to the magic that had robbed years from his life, that had left him scarred, to save their companions and Circle mages from demons. And after all that, he still looked scared, worried at what she might think, what she might do. Even as she cupped his jaw and he leaned into her hand, his eyes were still troubled.

It made her angry, not at him, but at every person who had hurt him. At the Circle for allowing it to happen, at the blood mage who used him, at herself for allowing him to walk back into the place that took everything from him. But that anger was for another time, another place, and Amal didn’t deserve to be caught in it anymore.

“Somehow, I think I can manage to forgive you,” Morrigan said, leaning in for a kiss.

Suddenly though, the entrance to the tent opened behind them, and Morrigan let out a curse. Amal, though, laughed silently, smiling at Zevran who was busying himself with removing his armor and boots.

“Ah, my apologies, I do not wish to interrupt,” Zevran said, grinning at Morrigan’s sigh.

“Apparently, not enough to leave us be, though,” Morrigan drawled.

Her words lacked any bite, just a playful jest. For all of her qualms with Zevran’s constant joking, she was at least grateful he could lighten the mood, make Amal laugh even as he’s weak from blood loss and dredged up traumas.

“Hey, this is as much my tent as yours, no? And I needed to make sure you are not taking advantage of our _poor_ warden while he’s in such a weakened state.”

Amal laughed, mustering enough strength to grab a pillow and throw it at Zevran weakly. He let it hit him, though he could have easily dodged it, clutching his chest dramatically.

“You _wound_ me, amor,”

Morrigan rolled her eyes, “Is _that_ why you came in here, hm?”

Tossing his armor and various daggers into the far corner of the tent, Zevran grinned.

“Well, truthfully, I _had_ hoped for the two of you would be wearing far fewer clothes,” Zevran admitted, “And that I could ravish Amal in thanks for saving my soul from eternal torment, but I figure that can wait until he is not missing half his blood, no?”

“How considerate,” Morrigan said, sitting up and starting to take off her necklaces.

There was a strange domesticity to it, a comfort and familiarity that almost didn’t seem to fit the setting. The routine of it, perhaps, the relaxed setting. The three of them had spent so many nights in Amal’s tent, at first it was purely physical but now? It seemed some nights they would just sleep, curled up against each other, sharing soft kisses and sweet words that Morrigan would never repeat in daylight. It was almost romantic, though it never seemed appropriate.

They were in a tent, in a temporary camp, in the middle of a blighted land, during a war against the darkspawn and an archdemon. Yet, that seemed almost far away. It was dangerous, Morrigan knew, but she also reasoned it was okay to forget for a night. They had earned this, no? Though she also knew this was the same reasoning she told herself every night she let this happen.

“If had the energy to be ravished, I would let you,” Amal smiled tiredly, “And I would take off my tunic to make it up to you, if I were not as you said, missing half my blood.”

“Luckily for you, I am rather skilled in ridding other people of their clothes,” Zevran said as he sat on the other side of the furs.

“You best not break him,” Morrigan warned, as she carefully placed her jewelry on the low table next to Amal’s things, “I will not help you explain that to Wynne.”

As she slipped out of her own top and skirt, she watched was Zevran carefully helped Amal out of his tunic. Amal looked like he could barely bring himself to sit upright, completely drained from the battle, his skin still ashen. It was always amusing to her, how gentle Zevran could be with Amal, something she had not expected in the beginning. It was a gentleness that he didn’t have in any other situation. She could just manage to hear Amal’s whispered _‘thank you habibi_ ’ as they both settled back on the furs.

As she slid back into bed next to Amal, she dimmed the lights to a low glow, just enough to be able to still see both of them. Zevran leaned in to press a soft kiss to Amal’s lips before curling up next to him, pillowing his head close to Amal’s face. He was much shorter than her, shorter than Zevran even, it was something more noticeable as they lay side by side. Humming quietly, Morrigan idly traced the elegant curling tattoos covering Amal’s chest, careful to avoid any of the fresh bruises.

“I take it, you know what happened now, Morrigan,” Zevran said, a slight seriousness to his voice.

“I find it hard to believe you weren’t listening in,” Morrigan sighed, staying quiet for another moment, “Did you know before, though?”

“Antiva shared a border with Tevinter, unfortunately. I’ve seen my fair share of blood magic. The scars are quite the giveaway.”

“Sorry,” Amal murmured.

It hurt her almost, that Amal felt he had to apologize. The lingering effects of everything he went through.

“There’s no need, mi amor,” Zevran smiled, taking the words from Morrigan’s mouth.

Pushing himself up just enough so he could lean over and press another gentle kiss to Amal’s lips. Amal made a content noise that reminded her of a cat as he melted between the two of them. Morrigan wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.

“No more needless heroics,” Morrigan said, resting her head near Amal’s shoulder, brushing her lips over the fresh scars, “Not when there’s an archdemon to slay,”

Zevran hummed in agreement as he settled back down, she could just manage to see him lacing his fingers with Amal’s. In the dark, it was hard to tell where her dark skin ended and Amal’s began, the similar shades bleeding Only Zevran, whose warm tan skin was a few shades lighter than the two of them, was distinguishable in the low light. It was a strange intimacy, seeing the brown colors of their skins bleed and blend as she let her eyes half-close.

“I’ll do my best, habibti,”

“And,” Zevran added, gently wrapping an arm around Amal’s waist, “If I may be so selfish, I personally would like for you to stay alive and relatively unharmed. Perhaps Morrigan shares a similar sentiment.”

“Perhaps I do,” Morrigan murmured, letting the lights go out as she fully her eyes, “Perhaps I do.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had meant to post this ages ago, when I played DA:O for the first time this January, but it got away from me. I really like Blood Magic and I wanted to explore narrative reasons behind my Warden specializing in Blood Magic (especially since it happened during the Lost in the Fade bs).
> 
> Habibi/Habibti means "my love" in Arabic (the same as Zevran's 'mi amor'), for those wondering.


End file.
